mighty flight

I only know of that fear when packing
when, unpacking, I go straight

and then suddenly, as if to fight me,
the form of a man bid me wait—

so I fight him to the death
and grin at my faithful state—

blasphemous heathen—
I strike a blow across your pate—

your cause is of no standing—
at your demise the earth will sate—

petty posthumous distractions,
like putty pasted on a plate,

and served to the plumped,
with a blade I chomped and ate,

the steel residue now in chunks,
like shrapnel war itself flung with hate,

and I spit it out, and without a doubt,
that’s all what’s left of his fate.

till he rises from the ashes, again,
like a devil in a song, when I abate—

a good rival is all, the heart wishes
long for love, while in life we relate,

and in death, and in song,
and with but a word we commiserate,

lest we forget where we come from
and from where we long to await

our longer, never-lost-loves come true,
high, honored throughout skies so great.

all bones and blood are we
were we to be without measured gait,

or hair and skin with no air,
were we but lovers and without mate—

there from afar, where you are,
see the literary sea itself extrapolate

to you its secrets, what you’re sending,
filling your heart up with, you create—

see the image of the beast
before he lay defeated circulate

inside you, as he sips like you,
from what you drink, and drunk with fate,

his wings, now, like from heaven
coming and going at your own rate—

who made him so fierce and willing
to surround your enemies at their gate,

and look them each in the eyes
for a moment, until the two resonate,

and he wipes them away like a wind
enveloping you, devouring your weight.

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